


essie davis

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22560475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: Headcases, man, fucking headcases, the both of them, doing this shit.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way/Mikey Way, Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	essie davis

**Author's Note:**

> officially decided im gonna stop trying to make myself write in 3rd person you can send a letter to the complaints department its their problem now

You wake up in the middle of the night wrapped in a flimsy afghan full of holes; one of your toes sticking through it and frozen stiff, little gunshot-circles of chilled skin up and down your body. There’s that standard moment of disorientation, goes like ah-my-bedroom-oh-shit-this-isn’t-my-bedroom-where-the-fuck-am-i and then you get it, count down the facts in your head, ease off on the adrenaline; you’re on the couch _who’s couch_ your own fucking couch _why_ Gerard’s back is acting up and he needed your bed. Wait— rewind— right. Sleepover shit, or something, good chance Gerard had one too many beers planted in the thick tacky linoleum of your doublewide kitchen and needed to crash and, of course, Mikey couldn’t give up his bed because he never did laundry and it smelled like a compost bin and Gerard's delicate little spine can't take the couch. You can't pull up the specifics but you'd bet ten bucks he shot you that be-a-good-host look he reserves for the real ritzy hookups (which usually just means it’s a chick from another fucking band, la di da) and it was tinged with those serious puppy-dog eyes that he's just young enough for, a week and some stubble from outgrowing, and you folded.

So you’re kicked to your own couch, and you can’t even remember where you got this shitty blanket, what the fuck. Someone’s grandma? Someone’s grandma who used swiss cheese as a crochet pattern? Probably. Probably Helena or whatever her name was, thanks so much Mikey, real considerate, Gerard has your bed and you’ve got a yarn fishnet instead of your nice 3-layer-thick blankets, and— and you’re a still little drunk, you think, when you try and roll over and wrap yourself up better and your head feels ready to drool off the throw pillow and onto the floor and leave the rest of you here, neck a long melted-armyman plastic thread, yeah, fuck, a little more drunk than a little. 

You want more blankets, really, and you want your brain to stop doing x-game tricks off the inside of your skull, that’d be nice, but you can only fix one of those so you swing your legs to the floor and try to heave yourself to sitting— god, fuck, you must be getting fat, this is stupid hard— and as you do you hear something. A strange subterranean splash, kind of, kind of a dull-dark-cave sound, a boot in a puddle of springwater echoing from miles ahead. You cock your head and squint and try to figure out what it was (broken faucet? Water bottle falling over? Someone taking a piss?) and you hear it again, this time with acoustics behind it, a squeak like a stuck wooden drawer or rubber against tile. 

And also— way-far-back— whispers. Faint, intimate, slurry. 

You wrap the afghan around your shoulders as if that’ll do a fat lot of good against the chill and get up for real— the last bit of your spine crunching back into place as you do, fucking $70 neighborhood-garage-sale couch is gonna kill you— and walk in the direction of the noise. You think you’re walking to the bathroom, maybe, but the blackout lamp ooze of the streetlights isn’t really giving enough light to work with. Doorway, doorway, doorway, here; you can kinda hear more faint watery sounds, and talking. Two people talking. Mikey and Gerard talking, of course, unless a pair of burglars decided to take a potty break together. 

The door isn’t locked. You just go in. 

They’re sitting there, in the pitch-pitch-windowless dark, in the vague black shape of your apartment's rickety old bathtub, Gerard and Mikey in the bathtub together smoking in the dark. Faintly, you can see the cinders of a cigarette— blunt? — like the ass-end of a firefly and their moon-pale faces, turned your way in what little light is leaking from the doorway, and then a formless shifting of one of their arms when somebody— Mikey, you think, maybe, but you can’t fucking see and their voices are pretty similar and their faces are just twin skulls leering at you, dark dark dark shadows burying their eyes, their mouths identical black slits— waves at you and says “Close the door, man.” 

“The hell are you doing?” you say, no bite behind it, just the grey mutter of a sleepwalker. 

“Close the door,” and this time you’re almost sure it was Gerard, maybe. One of them lifts the cigarette— you've got a whiff of the air now and it's a cig, all right, not a joint, that stale old-man old-paper smell of tobacco— from the other’s barely-there ghost white fingers and takes a drag. 

You close the door.

“Thanks.” There’s an o-lipped blowing sound and you imagine an invisible cloud of smoke filling the room, same color as the rest of the air because you just shut out the light and now there’s really nothing left. Blank, warm closeness, so humid every time you breathe you feel like you’re going to choke up bathwater. 

“Can I,” you say, “Like— can I get in?” 

There’s a brief moment of silence and then somebody— okay, that was Gerard, Mikey doesn’t laugh like that— back-of-the-throat giggles, says “He can’t see you, idiot,” and then there’s a splash, a thump, an _ow_.

“I shrugged,” Mikey says, hisses, laughter in the s-sounds.

“Is that a yes?” 

More silence, another splash-thump-ow with _quit it_ tacked on and Gerard pipes up again, says “He nodded, man. It’s whatever. Sure.” 

“Cool,” you say, for no reason, like this isn’t the most skitzo shit. 

You step forward and let the afghan fall from your shoulders and feel so, so stupid as you do it, like a drama-movie shot of some hot naked chick casting off her expensive silk-lined bathrobe, or whatever, except you’re a short tipsy idiot in cargo pants and boots— why the fuck had you slept in your boots— clambering into a tub instead of Kristen Stewart gliding into a hotspring. What the fuck, man. 

The cherry on Gerard’s— their— cigarette glows to life at the same moment your boot splashes down, like he’s timing his inhale, like he’s waiting for you. The water laps at the hem of your pants and, instantly, you want to get back out again because there’s something so wrong about the warm— not just warm, real fucken’ hot, jesus— water soaking into your clothes, like you’re going against some unspoken unwritten rule or law and you’re going to burst into flame. Headcases, man, fucking headcases, the both of them, doing this shit. 

You kind of shiver as it creeps up, soaking your pant legs, then your ass— that’s weird as all fuck, feels like your balls are getting gently vacuum packed— and you keep stepping on somebody’s calf, and when you sit down a knee gets you right in the tailbone. They’re both quietly bitching and muttering and shifting around you, making you feel small, making you feel like you’re a bird in a nest of outsized overlong stick limbs (and that’s mostly Mikey’s twiggy fucking fault, Gerard’s thighs are anything but sticklike even if he’s got a weird, sharp little ankle bone that digs right into your side). 

You settle down between them and they stop complaining and then it’s damp silence, your feet going numb from the angle they’re jammed at. You watch the firefly-glow-fade-glow of the cherry bellow brighter with their inhales when they pass it back and forth. They aren't offering you a drag, or even trying to keep the smoke out of your face, they just blow it around your head because yeah, you’re there, does it matter? Why should _they _care?__

____

____

It's so dark your hand is nothing but the faintest optical-illusion blur when you wave it in front of your eyes like people are supposed to do (smacking Mikey’s knee by mistake when you do it but he doesn’t say shit, like the time for bitching has passed, or something, like there’s a new gravity). You can't see anything except the cinder and whatever the light bounces off when it flares up again; Gerard's eyes, the oil-and-water shiny tip of his nose, his wet hair; the stretch of Mikey’s arm over the lip of the tub, his bare knee between the rips in his jeans, catching the glow like his skin’s been polished reflective. Your clothes feel so heavy, the water is so stupidly hot it matches your blood and you can't feel the difference between it and the air and your own flesh. 

No one's talking. The air is buttery-thick with that unspoken Way malignancy they carry around behind their teeth and eyes. You feel like you’re getting a dose secondhand, you’re shotgunning nitrous oxide, you’re just the laughing gas and they're a cloud of flashfire smoke, something ghosting out into the sky above a burning forest; it even smells right, still choked-up with cigarette smoke, all convincing. Mikey's leg pressing into your side cutting off your circulation. Gerard's foot under your knee. It’s very close fucking quarters, enough that you should be wrestling yourself out, retreating, dishonorable discharge, but. Whatever. 

Your shoulder blades press against Mikey’s chest when he leans forward to take the cigarette. They still aren't passing to you, just between themselves; you close your eyes when Mikey blows smoke into the back of your hair and there, for a second, there's no difference between the two of them, it could be either of their hands brushing your ear, either of their chins on the nape of your neck, corpse cold despite the boiling water. 

Gerard flicks the burnt-stub cigarette into the water and you can hear it hiss and death rattle. You let yourself go limp and slump onto yourself like a sack of cement or flour or honey. Mikey comes up behind you and his long long long sodden torso and second-skin caul of a tee shirt feels ice cold against your back, and then Gerard's at your front, pulling closer, your head bumps into his chest like a buoy against a reef. Slowly, you want to see the way their shirts are weighing them down, the impossibly fine wet wrinkles dragged against their bodies, their jeans soaked-down and cutting into their junk along the seams like it feels like yours are; there's something in the space with you now, in your blood, and you realize, faintly, that you're hard, getting there, and then you inhale sharp and Gerard's flimsy wet shirt gets sucked into your mouth and you choke, a little, but keep it there, waterboarding yourself. 

You hear _hey_ , you hear _hey, c'mere,_ and you hear a slick sound and you know, even though it's darker than dark, that they're sliding their mouths together, you can see it like it's broad daylight because your eyes are closed and staring. Here, an elbow bumps the wishbone edge of your collarbone; Mikey's hand is curving against Gerard's cheek. Here, a reach over you, the soft inside of a forearm against your bare cheek; Gerard's fingers are fiddling with the stuck-together strings of hair at Mikey's temple. Tongues and teeth. 

Maybe, real far back, you wonder when they got _that_ close, and if you could— if you could ask for an invitation, like you had in the doorway, clumsy, and maybe they’d bring you in, maybe. Or— or— it’d be enough if you could all fall asleep here, wake up like blackout drunks in chlorine-stiff clothes from the city tap water, knotted together in this watered-down apartment, sitting in half a foot of dead cold stagnant water. You think you wouldn't care. 


End file.
